


we're gonna rattle this ghost town

by starsshinedarkly77



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Buffalo Wild Wings, Emotional Constipation, Fluff, Frottage, Hux is a snob, Hux's first name is Brendan, I'm not kidding, Kylo Ren works at Buffalo Wild Wings, M/M, Making Out, Masturbation, Meet-Cute, References to stalking and harassment, all nsfw is extremely non-graphic, because I'm a big weenie, they meet in a Buffalo Wild Wings, this fic is weird, very very soft nsfw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-28 03:57:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6314386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsshinedarkly77/pseuds/starsshinedarkly77
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Kylo Ren works at Buffalo Wild Wings. In which Hux doesn't like Buffalo Wild Wings, but he does like Kylo Ren.<br/>"Kylo Ren with his black fingernails, wild hair, and employment at Buffalo Wild Wings, of all places, is exactly the kind of boyfriend Hux would have chosen to piss his parents off. Ren is such an ideal candidate for this purpose that he might as well have walked right out of one of Brendol Hux’s nightmares."</p>
            </blockquote>





	we're gonna rattle this ghost town

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, you guys, just wow. This fic was not supposed to be this long, or this weird, but it happened, and now here it is! I am not sponsored by Buffalo Wild Wings, I just like eating there, unlike Hux. I hope you enjoy this, such as it is! I worked long and hard on it! (Title from Anna Sun by Walk the Moon)

Hux has always liked Phasma’s apartment; it’s austere, minimalist, full of crisp, bold lines, much like the woman herself. It’s always impeccably clean, and, moreover, impeccably quiet, lacking in both noise and movement. Hux has, at this point, lost count of how many hours he’s spent here, studying at Phasma’s kitchen table while she studies in the living room, a companionable silence falling over the apartment.

  
A companionable silence that Phasma is about to willingly shatter.

  
Hux understands the concept of needing to let off a little steam with the aid of alcohol (he does it himself quite often enough), and he even understands, on some level, the concept of watching sporting events in a group as a sort of adrenaline-filled bonding experience amongst friends and colleagues. What he does not understand is Phasma’s willingness to disturb the implacable peace of her apartment by opening her hospitality to a selection of their classmates for the purposes of watching a _fighting match_ , of all things.

  
In preparation, Phasma has gathered what appears to be the entire inventory of a liquor store on her kitchen counter, and Hux finds himself breathing a sigh of relief that, at the very least, Phasma doesn't have that many knick-knacks for drunken party-goers to break.

  
Phasma must hear the sigh, because she turns to him with a smile playing at the edge of her mouth, an amused light dancing in her ice blue eyes.  
“If you’re gonna _sigh_  like that the whole night, you don't have to stay,” she teases him, reaching out to muss the very front of his hair, which she _just_  watched him meticulously fix in the bathroom mere minutes ago. “I know how much you hate shit like this.”

  
“I don’t _hate_  it,” Hux says defensively, crossing his arms over his chest. “There are just many, many things that I would prefer over being trapped in your apartment with our drunk classmates. An upstanding bunch, that lot.”

  
“They’re law students,” Phasma points out to him. “And I let you veto half the people on the original guest list anyway. You _handpicked_ this ‘upstanding bunch’, you big snob.”

  
Hux sniffs - _not_  in a snobbish way - and pushes his hair back into place. “Well, still. I’ve had drinks with a number of them - for that matter, you’ve had drinks with a number of them, and I can’t believe you’d let any of them into your home after witnessing that display.”

  
“I let _you_  in here, don’t I?” Phasma smirks. “And I’ve seen you get kicked out of…how many bars now? Three? Four?”

  
It’s five, technically, but Hux isn’t about to remind her; instead, he casts his gaze to the bags of pretzels and chips and bowls of dip on Phasma’s countertop. It’s all rather artfully arranged (courtesy of himself, of course) and he tries not to think about what it’s going to look like at the end of the night.

  
Phasma follows his gaze, then lets out a sigh of her own. “Oh, damn.”

  
“What?”

  
“I forgot I’m gonna have to go pick up the wings,” she says, glancing at the clock. “I called and ordered them but I didn't even think about the fact that I was gonna have to go get them. Fuck, and people are gonna be here soon. You know Mitaka always shows up early because he hates parking here.”

  
“I could go and get them,” Hux offers, trying for all the world to sound like he’s being a good and considerate friend rather than merely trying to avoid being here when everyone shows up.

  
Phasma places her hands on his shoulders. “Lifesaver,” she proclaims solemnly, and Hux promptly becomes just a little flustered at the unnecessary praise. “Here, take my car,” she says, offering him the keys, “And I’ll get you some money, just give them my name and they’ll let you pick up the order, no problem. You know where the Buffalo Wild Wings is, right?”

  
He does, not because he’s ever been to the establishment, but because the restaurant sign is yellow and garish and he has to drive past it every time he goes to Phasma’s. Sometimes he sees the logo when he closes his eyes at night. It’s obnoxious, of course, but he has to admit that it’s effective advertising.

  
“I know where it is.” Hux takes the keys. The weight of them in his hand makes him strangely uneasy. He pushes the feeling down, buries it, and puts the keys in his pocket.

* * *

 

Hux pulls carefully into one of the parking places helpfully labelled ‘Takeout Parking Only’. The takeout parking is close to the door, and the proximity helps Hux trick his brain into thinking he won’t be here long, surely. In, out, back to Phasma’s. No trouble at all.

  
It’s emptier inside than he expected it to be, considering the crowded state of the parking lot. It seems that the restaurant has a separate area for people waiting for takeout orders, and there are no other customers there at the moment. The only other person in the general vicinity is the bored-looking employee behind the takeout counter.

  
Hux approaches the counter slowly, swallowing an inexplicable lump of nervousness, and the employee casts his gaze over to him. The man is leaning on the counter slightly, rather large hands splayed out over its surface, and he’s chewing gum, popping it loudly and irritatingly, as if to underscore just how little he wants to be here. Hux tries, and fails, not to notice how the uniform shirt (a grey and yellow piece seemingly designed to resemble a football jersey) hugs the man’s broad shoulders and narrow waist, how his dark eyes glint under the dim restaurant lights, how his tongue flicks out from his large, soft mouth to clear the stickiness left over from his chewing gum. A cloud of thick black hair is held back off of his face with a white headband. His gaze is unsettlingly intense as he watches Hux approach the counter.

  
As soon as Hux is within range the man seems to turn on the employee persona, with all the ease of flicking on a light switch. He smiles widely, straightens up off the counter, and says cheerily, “Hi, welcome to Buffalo Wild Wings, what can we do for you today?”

  
His voice is low but surprisingly gentle beneath the false timbre of enthusiasm. Hux can hear where the syllables in his speech that should have been crisp are softened out by the chewing gum tucked in his cheek.

  
Hux clears his throat. “I’m here to pick up an order for Phasma?” It comes out as a question even though he doesn't mean it to be. The employee’s hands go to the computer but hesitate slightly, and Hux rattles off the spelling of Phasma’s name without further prompting.

  
He sees the man’s lips frame the name as his eyes scan the computer screen. “Oh, got it. Your total is going to come to…$41.50.”

  
Hux hands over the wad of cash Phasma gave him, watches the employee fumble to straighten out the bills and get the change out of the cash register. Up close, he notices the array of dark spots spattered across the man’s otherwise pale and smooth complexion. Hux also notices, for the first time, the name tag clipped to his chest, declaring him in all caps to be ‘KYLO REN’, which Hux does not believe for a second is his real name.

  
‘Kylo Ren’ gives Hux his change, and his pinky finger grazes Hux’s palm, sending a spark of feeling shooting up his arm, through his chest. “Let me go check on that order for you, okay?” The smile comes back, crinkling his eyes, and then Kylo Ren is gone, pushing through a door behind the counter that, presumably, leads to the kitchen.

  
And Hux breathes. Breathes again, inhaling the scent of grease and stale beer that permeates the whole restaurant. It’s unpleasant, and it steadies him slightly; he’s embarrassed beyond belief that he _needs_  settling, frankly. A cute server at a restaurant is nothing to lose his head over. Once Kylo Ren hands him Phasma’s order of buffalo wings, Hux will leave, and he’ll never see the man again - he certainly has no plans to return to Buffalo Wild Wings of his own volition, after all. Nothing to lose his head over. Nothing at all.

  
The kitchen door swings open and Kylo Ren reenters. His hands are empty, and Hux’s heart sinks a little even before Ren says, “I’m sorry, it’s gonna be just a couple more minutes on that order, sir.”

  
Hux doubts that Ren is truly that sorry about it, but he dismisses the apology with a wave of his hand anyway. “No trouble at all,” he says, and then retreats a few feet to lean against the wall, extracting his phone from his pocket to text Phasma.

  
‘ _This place is a nightmare_ ,’ Hux pecks out, hitting send with a little more force than is strictly necessary. When he glances up from his phone, Kylo Ren is drumming on the countertop with his thumbs, staring into the distance with a vacant expression on his face. Hux looks away before the man can catch his eye and give him another fake, brand-name smile.

  
His phone lights up in his hand, and he hastily swipes his thumb across the screen to unlock it and read Phasma’s reply.

  
‘ _ive told u ur a snob before, right? bc i stand by that statement 100%. its not any worse than any of the shitty bars weve been 2 together...and weve been 2 ALOT of shitty bars._ ’

  
‘ _It smells bad,_ ’ Hux types in his own defense. ‘ _And the staff is...distracting._ ’ Kylo Ren is now attempting to blow a bubble with his rather grey-looking piece of gum. Hux wonders in brief disgust how long he’s been chewing that.

  
Phasma responds alarmingly quickly. ‘ _my, my, my, brendan hux...lowering urself to hit on lowly service industry workers...what would ur parents thinks :0 ;)_ ’

  
‘ _I'm not hitting on anyone, he's just cute. Gross but cute. What the fuck am I doing. Please make me stop. Why did you send me here._ ’

  
“Do you want something to drink while you wait?” Kylo Ren asks abruptly, startling Hux, who fumbles his phone and very nearly drops it on the floor.

  
“No, thank you,” he says quickly. Ren nods in acknowledgement, leaning over the counter to prop himself up on his elbows. He’s so tall that that can’t be a very comfortable position, but he seems completely unfazed.

  
Hux’s phone buzzes again.

  
‘ _are u gonna try 2 hit that??? its been so long since u got laid i thought maybe u forgot how 2 do it...maybe u'd be less high-strung all the time if u did! just_ _saying!!_ ’

  
‘ _You know, I would,_ ’ Hux types, hoping the complete and utter dryness of his tone will come across well enough over text. ‘ _But I seem to remember SOMEONE I know is hosting a party and desperately needs me to bring buffalo wings...and besides, he looks about 20. And he works at Buffalo Wild Wings. I'm not quite that desperate for a lay, thank you very much.'_

  
‘ _like i said: snob. take a pic of him, i wanna see._ ’

  
‘ _Fuck no, he'd see me and then what would I say._ ’

  
‘ _JUST DO IT. PICS._ ’ 

Hux is debating whether or not he should tell her to fuck off or actually try to stealthily (creepily) snap a picture of Kylo Ren to get her off his back when the man speaks again.

  
“So,” he says slowly. “Are you having a party, or what? That’s a lot of wings.” He must be bored out of his mind, if he’s choosing to pursue this conversation with Hux.

  
“My friend is,” Hux responds shortly.

  
“Oh.” Ren picks at a spot on the counter. Hux waits, but Ren doesn't say anything else. Hux watches him scrape at something stuck to the countertop with his thumbnail. All his nails are painted black. It’s absurd, and yet somehow precisely in character. Hux wonders if he paints them himself. Not that it matters. He’ll never know the answer and it doesn't matter.

  
He’s been here awhile, far longer than he’d ever wished to be, and his butt has gone slightly numb from where he’s been leaning against the wall. Hux shifts restlessly from foot to foot. The movement attracts Ren’s attention, and he seems to realize, too, how long Hux has been waiting. He glances at the computer.

  
“You’ve been here for like ten minutes, right?” he asks, frowning, and before Hux can answer Ren straightens up from the counter. “Hold on a second.”

  
He exits again, leaving Hux alone. Phasma sends him three texts in a row; the first two are more demands for pictures of Ren, and the third is inquiring whether or not he’s going to come back before the party’s over. Hux doesn't have time to respond before Ren reappears, carrying - miracle of miracles - Phasma’s order of wings.

  
“Sorry about the wait,” Kylo Ren says, sounding genuinely apologetic. “Some idiot back there dropped your whole order on the ground and they had to remake the entire thing and no one bothered to tell me.” He sets the bag on the counter, offering Hux the plastic handle. “Did you want to look at it to make sure it’s right?”

  
“I wouldn’t know, honestly,” Hux says truthfully, approaching the counter and accepting the handle from Ren. He’s careful to avoid touching the other man’s hand; he thinks, maybe, that Ren notices. Not that it matters (it doesn’t, it doesn’t, it really doesn’t).

  
“Alright, well. You have a nice night, then.” For just a moment, Kylo Ren’s eyes flicker searchingly over Hux’s face. Then the moment is gone and Ren is turning on the megawatt trademark employee smile, composed and calculated to the exact degree his lips turn up at each corner.

  
Hux wonders what Kylo Ren’s real smile looks like.

  
A million thoughts flash through his mind; a million words gather at the tip of his tongue, just behind his lips, but he doesn't speak any of them. He swallows a mouthful of saliva and sentiment and turns to the door.

  
“You too,” he says, and then he is gone. Outside, the night is darker, colder, than he remembers it being.

* * *

 

Phasma’s party is too loud and too messy for Hux’s tastes; he’s not sure why he can handle going to bars better than he can handle house parties like this one, but he’s sure it has something to do with the forced proximity and the fact that he personally knows all of the people who are embarrassing themselves in front of him. He doesn't watch the fight, and he doesn't eat any buffalo wings, despite what he went through to obtain them. He’s not interested in getting his hands dirty.

  
What he does do is sit in Phasma’s kitchen and drink wine until the wine runs out, at which time he switches to jack and cokes, which he doesn't much care for but do well enough in a pinch. The point, he thinks dryly, is to avoid sobriety at all costs. Sometimes he thinks he might be turning into an alcoholic. The thought bothers him sometimes, but tonight he doesn't particularly care.

  
He has a brief, casual conversation with Mitaka, one of the few people in attendance who he can actually call a friend. Dopheld Mitaka, in the time that Hux has known him, has always been reserved, shy, and quiet almost to the point of meekness; he’s also sharp as a tack, though he lacks strong ambition. Mostly, Mitaka keeps his head down and does what he’s supposed to, and Hux likes that about him. They’d gone on one date, almost two years ago now; they’d parted amiably at the end of the night and never mentioned it again. They’re too similar in some regards, Hux supposes, to ever make a good romantic match, but they’ve managed to maintain the type of casual acquaintanceship Hux can’t claim he has with many of his classmates.

  
When Mitaka excuses himself to the restroom, Phasma plops down at the table across from Hux, placing her chin in her hands. Her pale cheeks are flushed from the heat and the alcohol, and she's grinning at him.

  
“You never sent me a pic of your Mystery Man,” she says, reaching out to snag his glass of jack and coke. He lets her take it; he's had far more than enough to drink, anyway. Knowing Phasma, she probably has as well, but she doesn't have to drive home at the end of the night. One of the advantages to having a party in your own home, he supposes.

  
“He’s not my Mystery Man,” Hux says firmly. “He’s just someone who works at a place I happened to go in once and who I’ll never see again. It doesn’t matter.” He keeps saying that, like it’s something he needs to reassure himself of. It makes him feel foolish.

  
Phasma turns his glass in her hands, and the ice clatters against the sides, only faintly audible over the hum of the party emanating from the other room. “I mean, you _could_  see him again, if you really wanted to,” she says finally. She puts the glass down on the table, shoves it back towards him.

  
Hux snorts quietly. “I know how desperate you are to set me up with someone, or get me laid, or what have you, but I’m hardly going to stalk the poor man at his place of employment.”

  
Phasma shrugs one shoulder, stands up from the table, and Hux feels a faint rush of relief that she’s going to let the subject go. The less time he spends thinking about it, the better.

  
“Are you gonna stay after?” She asks him. “I’m making omelettes in the morning.” It’s something of a tradition that they spend the night at each other’s apartments after they’ve been drinking, but tonight Hux finds himself craving quiet and solitude.

  
“Sorry, but I think I’m going to go soon,” he says. “Millie will be expecting me.”

  
It’s a lame excuse, even to his own ears, but Phasma doesn't comment, just gives him one of her wolfish smiles and tweaks his ear.

  
“Oh, well, now, we can’t keep dear Millicent waiting, can we?” She takes his glass off the table, rinses it out in the sink. “Are you alright to drive?”

  
“I think I’m going to walk,” Hux says, acting on a whim. Phasma’s apartment is just far enough away from his own that he prefers to drive when he comes over, but the walk isn't bad, and he could use the fresh air. “Can I leave my car parked here?”

  
“Yeah, no problem. You can come back and get it tomorrow, I’ll be here all day.”

  
Hux rises from his seat at the table. Stretches. Tries not to think about the fact that he’ll have to pass through the living room, the heart of the party, to leave.

  
“I’m sorry to abandon your party,” he says to Phasma, meaning it. He’s not sorry to be going but he does feel guilty about leaving Phasma to clean up the mess alone; perhaps Mitaka will stay behind to help her.

  
Phasma sets a hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly, and smiles again. “Don’t worry about it. Just get some rest, yeah?”

  
He clasps her hand against his shoulder and gives her a kiss on each cheek. Her face is warm underneath his lips, and the scent of her shampoo is sharp and familiar. He feels a deep and unexpected rush of affection for her, grateful for her friendship and for her understanding, and wonders what has gotten into him tonight. He’s not usually so sentimental.

  
Perhaps some of his thoughts have passed to her through his lips upon her cheek. He feels Phasma watching him as he leaves the kitchen, and tries not to think too much of it.

* * *

 

The night air is crisp and cool, a stark contrast from the warm and stuffy air of Phasma’s apartment, which had been packed wall to wall with bodies. Hux crams his hands further into his pockets but does not wish for a warmer jacket. He’s not one to be bothered by a pinch of cold, and he can still feel the burn of the alcohol deep in his chest, and in the tingle on his lips. He takes a deep, steadying breath before setting off down the street towards his apartment.

  
About halfway home, he sees it, and it isn't quite enough to stop him in his tracks, but it’s a near enough thing. The neon yellow sign glows against the backdrop of dark sky, bright enough that he has to squint against the light. For a fraction of a second, the urge to cross the street and go inside is almost stronger than he is. But almost is the key word, and Hux stops himself, roots his feet to the ground. He’s being silly. Foolish. Brendan Hux has never been prone to flights of fancy and he certainly has no plans to start now.

  
Hux squares his shoulders against the breeze and walks on towards home.

* * *

 

Hux wakes up in the morning, predictably, with a headache and a mouth that feels like it’s full of sand, and Millicent pawing incessantly at his chest. She _mrows_  softly when he reaches out to pet her, and accepts a scratch behind the ears before she leaps gracefully down from the bed. She blinks at him slowly, then pads away across the floor and out of the bedroom, presumably on her way to the kitchen, where she’ll sit and wait in front of her bowl until Hux comes in to feed her.

  
He sits up slowly, sliding to perch on the edge of the mattress while he tries to decide what to have first this morning: coffee or a shower. The desire for a long, hot shower eventually wins out over the desire for caffeine and he gets out of bed, stretching to pop his back and loosen out some of the tension in his muscles.

  
Once in the bathroom, Hux turns on the water as hot as it will go, and then, after sticking his hand beneath the spray to test the temperature, turns the heat down just slightly; there’s no need to burn his skin off of his body this morning, regardless of how poor he feels.

  
The warm water pouring over him eases the ache in his head and he sighs, letting his eyes slip shut. He didn't drink as much as he could have last night, but he feels groggy, unfocused, and the events of last night feel like a half-faded dream. Still, one memory cuts through the haze of his mind like a floodlight: a face, rather wide but with a certain hypnotizing symmetry, into which is set a pair of eyes like he has never seen before. Someone more romantic might have said they were the kind of eyes that could steal your soul, but Hux has never considered himself all that romantic.

  
Still, he thinks, _still._  He should have been able to put this behind him by now - he definitely should not still find himself thinking anything about Kylo Ren at all. Not about his name, not about his face. Certainly not about his large, soulful eyes and the constellation of moles scattered across his face and the distracting curve of his mouth and - _oh._

   
Hux flushes, embarrassed, as heat pools in the pit of his belly, settles thickly between his legs. He has half a mind to wrench the faucet over to cold and forget that this ever happened, but - but, well, it’s not as if anyone would ever have to know. Mr. Kylo Ren himself certainly never would, and maybe, just maybe, if Hux indulges himself now, in this way, he’ll be able to purge these inane thoughts from his head once and for all.

  
When he takes himself in hand, he allows himself to think of Ren, imagines what it would be like to peel him out of that skin-tight uniform shirt, to kiss that full, intoxicating mouth, to steal that ratty piece of gum right out from between his lips. He imagines those big, solid hands around him, touching his face, his neck, gripping his hips and his ass. He would tangle his fingers in that raven black hair and _pull_ , just hard enough to hurt, while he mouthed at Ren’s neck, nipping and sucking until he left dark bruises against Ren’s stark white skin. He has no way to know what sounds the man would make, but his brain fills in ragged gasps and faint moans, that low gentle voice saying his name, over and over (he never even got to hear Ren say his name - Ren doesn't even _know_  his name) until his throat catches around the x and he loses his ability to speak. He pictures those eyes looking up at him, glossy and wet, the pupils blown wide and dark as he works at Hux’s zipper, intent on showing him just exactly what that mouth can do -

  
Hux gasps, his eyes flying open as the swell of feeling inside him rises up and tumbles over, and he’s coming apart underneath the hot, gentle spray of the shower splashing against his scalp. He’s left shaking slightly, blinking drops of water out of his open eyes, watching the only evidence of what he’s done flow down the shower drain.

  
He feels a hot rush of shame, of guilt, come over him, warring with the lingering feeling of satisfaction, chasing away the very tail end of elation. At least it’s done now, he thinks, then shakes his head. It’s done, it has to be. No more thinking.

* * *

 

It’s Tuesday when he breaks, though it’s a very slow sort of breaking. He paces around his apartment for a full thirty minutes, then stands in front of the door, keys in hand, for another five. He circles his car around the parking lot of the Buffalo Wild Wings twice, three times, before he pulls into one of the ‘Takeout Only’ parking places. No more thinking. He gets out of the car.

  
In the moment just before he opens the door, he thinks that Ren won’t be there, that there’s no way he would be. Hux has no idea what his work schedule is like, and the odds of him just _happening_  to come in again when Ren is working are very, very low. It’s improbable, at best.

  
But either the odds are in Hux’s favor, or very much against him, depending on your perspective, because the lone figure behind the counter is tall with a cloud of dark hair, and is chewing gum with a bored expression on his face. It’s almost as if no time has passed at all, as if Hux has walked directly back into Saturday night and is seeing Kylo Ren again for the very first time.

  
This time, though, when Ren turns his head to look at Hux, there’s some flicker of recognition upon his face, something different in the upturn of his mouth - it’s not quite so painted on, not quite so forced. At least, that’s how Hux perceives it; there’s every chance he’s seeing only what he wants to see, giving meaning to gestures and expressions that, in reality, have no meaning at all. After all, it’s not as if Kylo Ren has spent the last three days drifting in and out of daydreams of Hux, trying to decide whether or not he should start stalking Hux where he works just to get an opportunity to see him again.

  
And yet. And yet, it’s as if his entrance has wiped any trace of apathy, of lethargy, from Ren’s body. He’s standing upright, long, lithe form thrumming with new energy, and he is looking at Hux. He is here and he is looking at Hux, and his smile is not quite real but it is not quite fake, either, and Hux feels a bizarre sense of relief; he feels comfortable, as if he’s just sunken into a warm bath.

  
“Hello again,” says Kylo Ren. “Picking up an order?”

  
“I haven’t placed one yet, actually,” Hux says. Maybe he should have called ahead. Maybe people who actually eat here know that, and now he looks like an idiot.

  
“No problem,” Ren says, looking down at the computer. “What can we get going for you today?”

  
Hux has actually opened his mouth to answer when he realizes that he has absolutely no idea what he’s about to say. The people who actually eat here certainly know what to _order_ , and now he _definitely_  looks like an idiot. He doesn't know a single item on the menu. He doesn't even like buffalo wings, for fuck’s sake.

  
“Um,” Hux says. He blinks, clears his throat. “Um. Wings? A small…wings?” Fucking hell.

  
“Regular or boneless?”

  
“Boneless.” If he’s really going to suffer through eating these he might as well not have to gnaw them off the bone like an animal.

  
“And what sauce would you like on those?” Ren asks, looking up.

  
“What are my options?”

  
Kylo Ren exhales slowly and closes his eyes, his brow furrowing slightly. Hux is about to ask him if something is wrong when his eyes pop back open. “In order from least spicy to most spicy: Sweet Barbecue, Teriyaki, Bourbon Honey Mustard, Mild, Parmesan Garlic, Medium, Honey Barbecue, Spicy Garlic, Asian Zing, Caribbean Jerk, Thai Curry, Hot Barbecue, Hot, Mango Habanero, Wild, and Blazin’.”

  
Hux gapes. “That’s…”

  
“Sixteen, total. Do you need to hear those again?”

  
He almost wants to say yes, just for the satisfaction of hearing Ren rattle them off a second time - how long did it take to memorize those, in order? Is that a requirement of working here? Is it depressing that hearing someone list sixteen different sauce flavors is just a little bit sexy? - but he refrains. He doubts hearing them all over again is going to bring him any more clarity about their meaning, so he just picks one at random from what he remembers.

  
“No, thank you. Mild, please.”

  
Ren nods once and punches something in on the computer. “What else can I get for you today?”

  
If Phasma were here she would say something fun and flirty like _your number, please_ , but Phasma isn't here; it’s only Hux, by himself, and what Hux says is, “That’s all, thank you.”

  
He’s pulling out his wallet to pay when Ren says, “Phasma, right?” and Hux is confused and flustered, thinking that Kylo Ren has somehow learned to read minds, before he realizes that Ren must need a name for the order, and the last order he picked up was under Phasma’s name rather than his own.

  
“No, no, it’s Hux, actually. H-U-X.” He’s used to providing the spelling of his name without being asked, the result of seeing ‘Hucks’ in unforgiving black marker on his coffee cups one too many times.

  
Kylo Ren’s eyes flicker to his face and stay there a beat too long before he looks down again, reads Hux his total off of the cash register. Hux digs out a bill and hands it to him without even registering its amount - by some miracle, it happens to be enough, and Ren presses Hux’s change into his hands with a freshly printed receipt. Hux retreats to the wall to wait as he had on Saturday night while Ren enters the kitchen, exits, and returns to slumping over the counter.

  
He doesn't get a chance to work up the courage to say something to Ren before someone else comes in to pick up their food (Ren turns on the employee-of-the-month persona on for them, impeccably friendly and helpful) and it’s only a few seconds after they leave that his own order is ready, and Ren is handing it to him over the counter. He’s missed his chance to do anything; he didn't even get to look at him for very long.

  
“Have a nice night, Hux,” Ren says. He said his name. It sounds even better than he imagined.

  
“You too,” Hux says.

  
And he leaves.

* * *

 

He only manages to force down a single bite of one of the wings before he’s wrapping the entire mess up and slamming it in the trash can. It’s disgusting, and it’s certainly not worth his money or his time to go back. He isn’t going back, and that’s final.

* * *

 

He’s back in on Saturday, and the following Tuesday, and the Saturday after that. He tries going in on a Thursday once, but Ren isn't there, and Hux leaves quickly, before the blonde woman behind the counter can ask him what he needs help with.

  
He and Ren never exchange more than a handful of words, mostly pertaining to what Hux is ordering. He tries to inject some variety into what he orders, even though he knows he’s going to throw it away without eating it. He asks Ren what his favorite sauce is and Ren says Asian Zing, so that’s what he orders; he actually bothers to take the time to taste that one before he throws it away, and it turns out to be more tolerable than the Mild sauce, though it’s obscenely spicy and he has to nurse his tongue on a glass of water in the kitchen for several minutes afterwards while Millicent twines about his ankles and _mrows_  at him. He tries to imagine what kind of hellish spice goes into making the ‘Blazin’ wings, the hottest flavor Ren mentioned, and decides he’s better off not knowing.

  
Phasma catches him in the act on the Sunday morning after his fifth visit, when he’s picking her up to go to brunch. He’s foolishly left the distinct yellow drink cup in his car from the night before - it contained an obscenely sweet Mountain Dew that he’d forced himself to drink, because it was caffeine and he was loathe to waste it like he’s been doing to the food - and Phasma notices it immediately, snatching it up and looking at him in an unacceptably smug way.

  
“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, irritated with himself for leaving evidence, for being caught doing something he’s been chastising himself for for weeks.

  
Phasma just shakes her head and puts the cup back. “He must be hot, if you're willing to eat _fast food_  just to see him,” she says, fastening her seatbelt.

  
“I haven’t actually been eating it,” he says. “It’s quite disgusting, I don't know how you can stand it.”

  
She blinks at him, then whacks him rather forcefully across the arm. He swears, jerks the steering wheel a little, and has a bit of a heart attack when he almost hits a mailbox on the side of the road.

  
“I’m _driving_ ,” he says shrilly. “Holy fuck, Phasma, honestly.”

  
“Well, you deserved it,” she says defensively. She’s looking at him like he’s just admitted he enjoys drowning puppies in the sink on weekends. “Why would you throw away perfectly good food when you could, I don't know, give it to your best friend who has always been there for you and offered you nothing but love and support?” She slumps against the headrest dramatically, her eyes fluttering closed. “You monster.”

  
“I’d disagree that it’s ‘perfectly good food’,” Hux argues, “-but I’m sorry to deprive you. Now that you say it, that would have made a lot more sense.” He’s losing all sense of logic and it’s all Kylo Ren’s fault. Nothing he’s done in the past few weeks has made one iota of sense.

  
“It’s because you’re still trying to hide Mystery Man from me,” she says, folding her arms over his chest and pouting a little. “Damn him, I could have been getting free wings.”

  
“I wouldn't even be purchasing any wings if it weren’t for him,” Hux reminds her, then sighs. “What am I doing, Phasma? This is absolutely insane. I don't even speak to him when I go in, I just sort of stand there and stare like - like a schoolboy with a crush, or a damn stalker. I’ve been throwing away eight dollars worth of food every three or four days just so I can _look_  at him. What is _wrong_  with me?”

  
Phasma hums musingly, tapping her fingernails against the glove compartment. “Well, I’m not going to say it isn't creepy, because it is, a bit, but I’ll excuse it. I know you’re not planning to do anything untoward, because this is you we’re talking about. But you need to just _talk_  to him, Hux. Just ask him out or for his number and be done with it, because even if he says no you can stop going and get over it, at least. And if he says yes I’ll finally stop trying to hook you up with people from my apartment building.”

  
She’s right and he knows it; the worst that can happen is Kylo Ren says no, and, honestly, it might be better if he does. He still doesn’t know how old Ren is, or anything else about him (he doesn't even know that Ren is interested in men at all, though Hux usually has a good instinct about those sorts of things), and furthermore it would probably do Hux some good to be told off for being so _weird_  about this. Once he’s been rejected, he won’t go back (because then he really would be a stalker), and he’ll be able to get on with his life.

  
Hux is used to dating a wild array of men. It’s what he’s always done in the past, an action born of pure spite and the desire to make his conservative family as furious as possible, and Kylo Ren with his black fingernails, wild hair, and employment at _Buffalo Wild Wings_ , of all places, is exactly the kind of boyfriend Hux would have chosen to piss his parents off. Ren is such an ideal candidate for this purpose that he might as well have walked right out of one of Brendol Hux’s nightmares. He hasn't dated much lately, perhaps because he’s been turned off to the concept of dating through his own trend of exclusively and purposefully sleeping with complete assholes. He hasn't had a genuine ‘crush’ in years; just saying the word makes him feel silly and juvenile, especially when he’s describing his relationship to someone he’s barely even _spoken_  to for more than thirty seconds at a time, but it’s the only one that comes to mind. He has a crush on Kylo Ren.

  
Hux sighs, a mix of resignation, defeat, and hope all bottled into one, and Phasma smiles at him. She starts playing with the radio dial, then, and they don't say another word the whole way to brunch. They don't need to.

* * *

 

When he walks into the Buffalo Wild Wings on Tuesday evening, Kylo Ren is not slumped against the counter. He is not apathetically chewing gum, not tapping his hands against the cash register, not pretending to read a menu even though he must have memorized the entire thing ages ago. Instead, he is looking at the door, and, after Hux comes through it, he is looking at Hux.

  
The smile Hux has come to expect does not appear.

  
As Hux approaches the counter, Ren shifts to hold the kitchen door open with his foot, yells at someone inside that he’s taking his break, and lets it slam shut without waiting for a response, for acknowledgement or permission. Then he is coming around the counter, and before Hux can react, Kylo Ren has his arm in a vice grip and is hauling him brusquely into the men’s restroom. Hux lets himself be led, unwilling to admit even to himself that he’s not sure he could pull out of Ren’s hold if he tried.

  
The second the bathroom door is shut Kylo Ren releases him, turns on him with anger in every line of his body, in the light of his eyes and the flush of his cheeks - and, underneath the anger, something like wariness, like fear. Even though it’s Ren who has dragged Hux in here and trapped him, Hux feels like he’s the one who’s cornered Ren, like some wounded animal that turns vicious when it’s been backed up against a wall.

  
“Okay, like, what the _fuck_ , though,” Ren starts, and Hux is taken aback.

  
“I-I don’t know what you’re - “ Hux stutters out, but he’s cut off when Ren snorts loudly.

  
“Oh my God, don't play fucking dumb with me, I know you only come in here when I’m working and I kind of wanna know what your fucking problem is? Like, at first I thought it had to be a coincidence, right, but you literally come in every Saturday and Tuesday at the _exact same time_ and that is _definitely_  not an accident.”

  
Hux’s ears and neck are burning, must be red as a tomato by now, and he can feel the flush start to creep up into his face, but he can’t manage to get any words in before Ren is drawing a breath and continuing on.

  
“Are you a serial killer? Like, a serial killer who only targets people who work at wing restaurants? I keep leaving work thinking you’re going to be waiting out in the parking lot to stab me to death and leave me in the dumpster, and then no one will find me until morning and at that point I’m gonna smell like fucking _ranch dressing_  permanently and then when my mom is crying at my funeral and leans down over my coffin to kiss my forehead she’ll get a big fucking whiff of ranch dressing and it’ll be all your fault.”

  
Hux waits, but Ren seems to be done. At the very least, he seems just a bit calmer now, as if releasing an absolute tidal wave of words has taken the edge off of his fury, and he slumps against the wall, folding his arms over his chest. He’s still glaring, or what he seems to think is glaring, which in actuality is more along the lines of a strong pout.

  
“I’m sorry to have scared you,” Hux says slowly, and he truly, truly is. He’s embarrassed at his own behavior, especially given that he’s known from the beginning that what he’s been doing is absurdly creepy, and, overall, quite unacceptable.

  
Ren scoffs. “You didn't _scare_  me,” he says, sounding defensive.

  
“I hate to argue with you, but you just explained to me that you thought I was planning to murder you in the parking lot,” Hux points out. Ren’s brow furrows.

  
“Fair enough,” he concedes. “But just so we’re on the same page, you're definitely not going to do that, right?”

  
“Of course not.”

  
“So…you really are just some guy who happens to want wings at the exact same time every Tuesday and Saturday?” Ren shuts his eyes, groans loudly. “I am so getting fucking fired, holy shit.”

  
Hux shifts uncomfortably. “Well, not - that’s not…I mean.” He breathes in deeply, through his nose (regrets it; he forgot they were in a public restroom), runs a hand through his hair. “To tell you the truth, I don’t even like buffalo wings. In fact, they're completely repulsive and I don't understand what all the fuss is about. I’ve been throwing the ones I order from you away.”

  
“So why are you…” Ren trails off, his eyes narrowing. “I thought we’d established you weren’t a serial killer?”

  
“For Christ’s sake,” Hux says, exasperated, pinching at the bridge of his nose. He can feel a headache forming at the edge of his temples. “I swear to you that I’m not. I kept coming back because I wanted to see you again and I didn't exactly have any other way to do so. And yes, I do realize that that’s an absurd thing to do, especially since I could barely work up the courage to _say_  anything to you while I was here, and I’ve essentially stalked and harassed you at your place of employment, and I’m quite embarrassed about it now and quite sorry to have bothered you, I truly am.”

  
He expects his words to rekindle Ren’s anger, but when he chances a look at him, Ren is staring at him, lips slightly parted, eyes wide as saucers. He looks like he can’t quite make sense of what Hux is saying, like the concept is something he can’t quite wrap his mind around.

  
“You wanted to see _me_  again?” he says, with no small amount of incredulity.

  
“Well. Yes.” Hux isn't sure where the confusion is coming from.

  
Ren flushes suddenly, color flooding his cheeks, and stares at the floor like he can’t bring himself to meet Hux’s eyes. He puts a hand on the back of neck, long fingers twining into his hair, and he hunches his shoulders a bit.

  
“Is that…okay?” Hux asks slowly.

  
Ren bites his lip, and Hux tries not to be distracted by that. It’s difficult.

  
“Yeah, it’s okay, I mean…” Ren huffs out a laugh, or something close to it; it’s more bitter, more self-deprecating than any laugh should be. “I just don’t really know why you would bother? You literally don't know anything about me. I could be really, really shitty, for all you know.”

  
There’s something to that; something in his face, in his tone. It’s not insignificant, the fact that Ren’s first assumption was that Hux was a murderer rather than someone interested in pursuing him romantically. But that’s something deeper, something private, something that Hux doesn't have the right to access yet, so he puts it in the back of his mind and files it away for later; later, assuming he has a ‘later’ with Ren at all.

  
“All I know is that I find you attractive and I think you’re interesting enough that I’d like to get to know you better. I doubt very much that you’re ‘really, really shitty’, as you put it, but if you are I’d at least like to find that out through firsthand experience rather than just taking your word for it,” Hux says, and then wonders if he’s been too forward, or too blunt, or dry, or sarcastic, or any number of other things - but no, Ren is smiling, just a little, and it’s warm and shy and uncertain, so unlike his painted-on, customer service smile. Kylo Ren’s real smile pulls up just a little further on one side than the other, and Hux sort of wants to drown in it, which is illogical, as there’s no way to drown in a _smile_ , of all things, but if there was any smile in the world one _could_ drown themselves in, Hux thinks it would be that one.

  
“Okay,” Ren says, low and gentle, and Hux can’t keep the smile off his own face at that, just a small one, before he schools his face back into a less ridiculous expression.

  
“Okay,” Hux says back, and tries to pretend he doesn’t hear how rough and breathy his own voice sounds.

  
“Okay,” Ren says again, and then shakes his head forcefully. “Okay, no, we’re not doing that _Fault in Our Stars_  back and forth ‘okay’ bullshit, it’s not happening.” He straightens up from the wall. “I have to go back to work,” he looks pained when he says it, “but do you want to…no, probably not.”

 

Hux pauses, but Ren doesn't elaborate. “Do I want to what?”

  
“I was going to ask you if you wanted to maybe meet up and talk after my shift but…I get off at two.” He looks up at Hux almost apologetically.

  
He gets off at two a.m. Hux has class in the morning; _Ren_  must have class in the morning, if he is indeed a college student, like Hux expects he is (and he really, really does need to ask about that at some point, damn him). He can’t, he shouldn’t, it’s impractical and insensible and all those other words that Hux hates the thought of being associated with. He could very easily just ask for Ren’s phone number and agree to meet him some other time, somewhere else. That’s the logical thing to do.

  
And yet…nothing he’s done in the past few weeks has been even remotely logical.

  
“I’ll pick you up. At two.” Hux says firmly, before he can overthink himself out of it. What the hell, right? Phasma is always saying he needs to stop thinking so much and just do things sometimes, so that’s what he’ll do. He’ll have a date at two a.m. with some boy who works at Buffalo Wild Wings, who calls himself a ridiculous name and pops his gum too loudly and paints his fingernails black. No more thinking.

  
Ren’s not quite smiling like before, but there’s some pleased, mischievous light dancing in his eyes, and Hux can’t help but feel like he’s passed some sort of test, one he didn't know he was taking.

  
“Alright,” Ren says.

  
“Alright,” Hux says.

  
When Ren leaves the restroom with a backwards glance and another shy, crooked little smile, Hux leans back against the sink, shuts his eyes. Breathes in, exhales. Tries to pretend he isn’t smiling, but he is. Hux is smiling and he really, truly can’t help it.

* * *

 

He goes back to his apartment for awhile, then. He tries to study without making much headway, tries to take a nap with no success, and ends up chugging two cups of black coffee and absently stroking Millicent while he stares at the clock, watching the hour hand tick excruciatingly slowly towards the two.

  
Hux pulls back into the Buffalo Wild Wings parking lot at 1:55 a.m. He considers going inside the building, then thinks better of it and remains in the car. At 1:58 he realizes that Ren has no idea what his car looks like, so he gets out and leans against the back bumper, crossing his arms over his chest in an attempt to keep warm. He’s jittery from the caffeine and he badly wants a smoke, but he’s been trying to quit, and in any case he’d probably look like some ridiculous rebel teenager smoking in a parking lot at two in the morning.

  
It’s 2:01 when the takeout entrance door swings open and Ren appears. He’s barely more than a dark silhouette against the dimly lit parking lot, but Hux knows it’s him; who else could possibly be that long and lanky?

  
Ren seems to catch sight of Hux, as well, because he makes a beeline right for him. When he gets closer, Hux can see that he’s still in his uniform shirt, and that he has a black messenger bag slung over one shoulder. As he draws up next to Hux’s car he stops, just a tad abruptly.

  
“ _That's_ your car? Are you serious?”

  
Hux frowns - not that Ren can see it all that well in the semi-darkness. “Yes. Why, what’s wrong with it?”

  
“Nothing wrong with it,” Ren says. “It’s a fucking Mercedes.”

  
It is indeed, as Ren puts it, a fucking Mercedes. Hux has never thought very much about it, but the way Ren is gawking at it makes it seem as if its something truly lavish and excessive. “It’s a Mercedes, not a Lamborghini,” Hux says defensively.

  
“I drive a 2008 Nissan Pathfinder that my uncle handed down to me when I went to college,” Ren says. “It’s been cleaned maybe twice, ever. This might as well be a fucking Lamborghini.” He looks at Hux searchingly. “Are you sure you want to haul my sweaty ass around in that thing? Because I do stink right now…really bad.”

  
“I take my friend home from the gym in it. You can’t smell any worse than she does after she’s been power lifting.” Phasma doesn't believe in putting on deodorant before she works out, because she thinks it creates too much unnecessary friction. Hux tolerates it because she’s his best friend and he loves her, even when she leaves sweat stains on the passenger seat of his car.

  
Ren snorts. “You wanna bet? Some frat guy spilled a beer on me about two hours ago and I had to just let it dry into my clothes. I smell like some suburban couple’s shag carpeting after their shitty teenage kid threw a rager in their house when they went out of town for a weekend.”

  
Hux chuckles at that. “Well, regardless of how you smell, I’m not going to ban you from my car, because that would obscenely rude of me.” He stands up straight from where he’s been leaning against the bumper. “Do you want to put that in the back or keep it with you?” he asks, indicating Ren’s bag.

  
“With me’s fine,” Ren says. A smile twitches up at the corner of his mouth. “You know, just in case it turns out you _are_  a serial killer and I have to quickly jump out of your car to get away from you.”

  
“If you’d rather reschedule to sometime during daylight hours, to reduce your risk of being kidnapped, that’s fine, you know,” Hux says, half teasing, half serious. The last thing he wants is for Ren to have any reason to be afraid of him, especially after the whole ‘does this count as stalking and harassment’ debacle.

  
“Nah,” Ren says, stretching out his back. “You’re already here now.”

  
“Well, in that case.” Hux crosses around to the left side of the car, opens the passenger door for Ren. “Shall we?”

  
“We shall,” says Ren, teasing, but not mocking, ribbing him the way Phasma tends to do. He slides into his seat and Hux heads around the car to get in the driver’s seat. For a moment, they just sit in silence, staring out at the nearly empty parking lot. Then Hux looks over at Ren. His face is illuminated by the too-harsh light of the yellow Buffalo Wild Wings sign, a hue that should be completely unforgiving, but instead seems to all but make Ren’s skin glow faintly, like some distant, unfamiliar moon. His eyes are shut and a look of absolute serenity crosses his face as he sighs quietly, slumps down in his seat.

  
“It’s so quiet,” he mutters, so softly Hux can barely catch what he says. “’S nice.”

  
“What do you want to do?” Hux asks after a moment. He’s reluctant to disturb Ren, but it would be a bit awkward if he fell asleep right now. “I’m assuming most everything is closed at this time of night.” He doesn't know what people are supposed to do at two a.m. ( _sleep_ , the logical part of his brain says), and he’s hoping Ren might have thought of something.

  
Ren’s eyes slide open, and he hums thoughtfully, his gaze fixed outwards towards the parking lot. “Well,” he says. “We could make out.”

  
Hux’s back straightens so quickly and jerkily that he very nearly hits the steering wheel and honks the horn. “Uhm,” he says, and then stops, because nothing else coherent is coming to mind.

  
Ren slouches down a little more. “I mean, we don't have to, if you don't want to but…we’re in your car in a shady parking lot at two in the morning. It seemed…appropriate. Or, well, not appropriate, I guess, but…fitting.”

  
“You…I…” Hux says weakly. “Obviously I _want_  to, but this is…are you sure you…” He flounders around a bit, trying to figure out what it is he wants to say.

  
He doesn't get the chance, because Ren is sitting up then, placing his fingers gently over Hux’s mouth. “I’m sure if you’re sure,” he says firmly, and after a moment’s hesitation, Hux nods.

  
“Only,” he says, pulling Ren’s fingers away from his lips. “Please at least tell me how old you are first, so I know I’m not about to do something obscenely stupid.”

  
Ren huffs out a laugh. “What, I look like a teenager to you? I’m twenty-one. Don’t worry. Not only legal, but ‘buy-my-own-booze’ legal.”

  
“I’m twenty-five,” Hux tells him. “Is that okay?” It’s not that big of an age gap, but if Ren is uncomfortable with it, then this won’t go any further.

  
But Ren is nodding, now, like that’s what he expected Hux to say. “That’s fine,” he says, and then he is leaning closer, placing his hands on Hux’s shoulders. “Is this fine?” he asks, low and uncertain, his fingers gripping unsteadily at the fabric of Hux’s shirt.

  
“More than fine,” Hux says, breathlessly, and then his eyes are slipping shut, and he is leaning forward, and then he is kissing Kylo Ren.

  
Ren’s lips are as soft as they look, warm and supple against Hux’s own, and his large hands slide up from Hux’s shoulders to rest at the nape of his neck, fingertips brushing the lower-most strands of his hair. Hux, in turn, reaches out for Ren, finds he can’t quite reach him around the glove box, and settles for resting his hands around Ren’s wrists. He can feel Ren’s pulse thrumming, quick and light as a hummingbird, against the pads of his thumbs.

  
At this angle, Ren’s nose is pressed into his cheek, noticeable but not quite uncomfortable, and Ren’s mouth is slotted against Hux’s so that his lower lip rests in the dip between each of Hux’s. Hux takes advantage of this, opening his mouth just enough to allow Ren’s lip to slip inside, and then he sucks lightly, grazing the inside of Ren’s lip with his teeth. Ren’s wrists shake slightly in his grip, and his tongue flicks against Hux’s upper lip.

  
They stay like that, kissing open-mouthed and desperate, until Ren pulls back to get a bit more air than what he’s been stealing in harsh gasps between kisses. His lower lip is already swollen and slightly bruised from Hux’s attentions. “The glove compartment’s digging into my ribs,” he breathes. “Can I-“ He moves as if to climb over it.

  
“ _Yes_ ,” Hux says, and then he has a lapful of Kylo Ren. Ren is so tall that he barely fits in the space, but he does manage, sliding over to straddle Hux, essentially crouching in his lap. His thighs squeeze around Hux’s, and his hips press against Hux’s torso, letting Hux feel the swell of Ren’s arousal against his stomach. Everything feels too hot all of a sudden and he swallows thickly as Ren adjusts himself in his lap, trying to find a comfortable position.

  
Struck by a sudden burst of inspiration, Hux reaches up, tugs the headband out of Ren’s hair, and the thick, black locks fall down in heavy curtains around his face. His eyes are so dark and so wild, his face is flushed, and his breath is coming in hot pants against Hux’s face. Ren hadn’t been lying when he’d warned Hux he didn’t smell good; up close, he smells overwhelmingly of beer and fry grease and sweat, but Hux finds he really, really could not care less at the moment.

  
He stretches up to kiss him again, and Ren responds in kind, pressing impossibly closer. Hux puts his hands on Ren’s hips, intending to help him keep his balance, but he finds himself sliding them to the small of Ren’s back, slipping under his shirt, the pads of his fingers rubbing at the hot, slightly damp skin he finds there. Ren sighs into his mouth before cupping Hux’s face in his hands and deepening the kiss, already so deep Hux didn’t know there was anywhere left to _go_. He is definitely pressing himself against Hux on purpose now, rolling his hips in short little bursts, and Hux makes an attempt to do the same, but the angle is wrong and he can’t find the friction he needs.

  
As if the other man has read his mind, Ren takes one hand away from Hux’s face and brushes it down his chest before he’s cupping Hux through his pants. Hux takes a ragged breath, and then he does not know what happens, cannot put it into words, because he is lost to sensation. All he knows is Ren, warm and solid and everywhere all at once, and breathing is hard but who needs to breathe, anyway, and he is climbing towards something, somewhere, up and up and up, until it seems like there can’t be any more up to go to, and then there is the edge of the cliff and he is falling over and crashing, crashing, crashing in the most beautiful way he can imagine.

  
When the crashing is over and he is floating down, hazy, he feels Ren stiffen against him, feels the steady movement of his hips stutter and halt as his back arches away and he cries out, just slightly, a short, musical little sound. Then he is slumping against Hux with limbs that are still quaking from the rising and falling over, and they are panting together, not quite in sync but near enough to it. When Hux feels in control of himself and his breathing again, he presses another kiss against Ren’s lips, this one short and chaste, a reminder that he’s still here, that they are there together.

  
Ren rests his forehead against Hux’s, and Hux opens his eyes just enough to see the smile playing across his face, content and sleepy. Hux’s legs are starting to go numb from Ren’s weight resting on them, but he doesn't have the heart to tell Ren to get off, no matter how uncomfortable it is.

  
“You know what I realized,” Ren mutters, unmoving, eyes still closed.

  
“What’s that?” Hux asks him. His voice sounds groggy and thick, almost slurred, to his own ears, and he has to fight to keep a smile off of his face before he realizes there’s no reason to fight it, no need. He lets it happen.

  
When Ren opens his eyes Hux is smiling indulgently up at him, and if he looks a little too adoring, then Ren doesn't call him out on it.

  
“We never really even introduced ourselves,” Ren says, and he laughs, a real one, bubbling up from his chest, so that Hux can feel the shake of it in his whole body. “Who the fuck are you, even?”

  
He’s joking, but Hux extracts himself slightly from Ren, sticks out his hand. “I’m Brendan Hux, it’s nice to meet you.”

  
Ren grins, showing off a pair of slightly snaggletoothed canines. “I’m Kylo. Kylo Ren.” He puts his hand in Hux’s and shakes, once, firmly.

  
“I thought maybe that meant you would tell me what your _real_  name is,” Hux says. “Because I am definitely not willing to believe that’s it.”

  
“Yeah, well,” Ren says, rolling his eyes. “My real name is boring. Third date material, is what I’d say.”

  
“Oh, really,” Hux says dryly. “So making out in a parking lot is first date material, but real names are third date material? What do you consider second date material?”

  
Ren shrugs, looks at him mischievously. “I guess you’ll find out when you take me on one.”

  
“I guess I will.”

  
He’s bound and determined that their second date will not take place anywhere near a Buffalo Wild Wings, but for now, he’s grateful for the dark, quiet atmosphere of its parking lot as they sit, together, holding one another.

* * *

 

When he closes his eyes that night, he will not see the neon yellow sign, the black shape of the buffalo with wings, but rather, a face that he saw illuminated by its light, pale and serene, like a glowing moon. Alone in bed, Millicent curled against his chest, Hux will allow himself to smile. 


End file.
